Manifestation

It happened one morning after an argument with Chris. We’d gone out for dinner and drinks with the Chelseys and came home to discover that Doug had chewed into an old cardboard box I’d had hidden under our bed forever. 

To be fair to Chris, I had promised to do something about that stupid box for literally years. I’d picked it up from Mom’s house after graduating, then carried it with me from home to home. Its presence had become such a constant, I’d nearly forgotten that there was actually something inside of it. 

But Chris didn’t like it. He’d seen a documentary about minimalism not long after we’d started dating and had purged himself of worldly possessions – our home was neat and clean and sharp, with “joy” crackling from every piece of furniture. 

And it drove him crazy that under his chic, chromatic bed was this old shoebox, covered in stickers emblazoned with the philosophical idealism of a fourteen-year-old girl. It was loud to me – it must have been a constant ringing in his ears. 

“You promised you’d take care of that!” Chris had yelled at me after chastising Doug. 

“I will!” I snapped back, picking up the fragments of cardboard. It appeared that Doug had only torn apart part of the box, leaving its insides mostly intact. I decided to go through things in the morning. I vowed to myself to evaluate its contents for “sparks of joy” as soon as I woke up the next day. 

But first, we argued. 

We shouted, I cried, he claimed I don’t respect our shared spaces, I reminded him I was never allowed to create those spaces, we separated, we sulked, we apologized, we fucked, then we fell asleep. 

The box sat on our dining room table, and I was pretty sure it was taunting me as I dreamed. I was suddenly filled with images of its contents, vague memories of forgotten treasures, and notes written to myself from years past. 

When the sun rose, I was out of bed faster than I’d risen in years, tiptoeing across our white carpet and wrapping a fluffy robe around my shoulders as I walked down the hallway. 

There it was, in the middle of our condo, sat atop our expensive glass-and-reclaimed-wood table, bellowing its secrets: this ugly little box of wonders, chewed at one corner, with its lid slightly askew. 

I stared at it for a second, then skirted around the table and moved towards the coffee pot. Or, Chemex, actually. I busied myself with measuring and grinding, heating water and pouring it over the clean, clear, hour-glass shaped contraption, watching the box from the corner of my eye. I focused on the warm, brown liquid as it dripped slowly from filter to glass. It became an exercise in constant vigilance to not let my eyes cut to the box. 

I poured a cup of coffee, then allowed myself to turn around, sipping, to look at the thing.

I leaned against the marble countertop, letting its cold edge dig into my back, hoping it would act as a nudge or a kick or something. Chris was already gone for the day – he had a 4 AM call time on set, and it was a Tuesday, so he would have dropped Doug off at doggy daycare. I only had about 45 minutes before our cleaning lady arrived, and I’d be forced from the condo to the gym. 

I sighed and stepped forward, feeling the footprints my feet left in the plush carpet. I pulled up a chair. Sat down. Pulled the box towards me. Paused. Stared. Contemplated throwing it away without examining the contents, then finally took off the lid and threw it across the room with the dramatic flair I was known for. 

It was extremely anti-climactic, filled with movie tickets and photos from camp. I pulled out a red bandana and laughed at the memory it triggered – capture the flag in a small town at night, when we’d all just gotten our licences and would speed down unpaved roads while drinking loud bottles of cheap beer. 

More memories followed – photos of my friends in my teenage bedroom, its walls piled high with books and photographs of my celebrity crushes. I laughed out loud at one – I was probably seventeen, leaning against my wall to kiss a picture I had cut from a magazine. It was the first picture I had ever seen of Chris, back when he was still in the band, and I’d fallen in love with his mop of curly hair and tattoos. He’d had those removed before we met, that fortuitous night at the alumni dinner. 

My clothes were always a patchwork of frenzied patterns – anime characters, band names, snarky quotes and more, and I was never wearing the same thing twice in any photograph. 

I set aside a few of my favorites to frame and hang up in my office. Chris had designed the space, complete with a transparent, plastic desk and a simple iMac, but he never went inside. There was certainly space for the photos on the wall above the computer. 

Beneath the pile of photographs was a small red notebook, and I immediately set down my coffee cup and smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. I picked it up and ran my hands across the velvet cover, remembering the time I’d found it on the shelf in Barnes and Noble and begged my mom to buy it for me. 

She’d said no (“Fifteen dollars is WAY too much to spend on a few blank pieces of paper!”), so I’d stolen it, then spent the rest of my high school years filling it with hopes, dreams, musings, and rants. 

It contained every thought I’d had in those few short years. 

I read the first few pages, in which I had written angstily about my crush on a boy in my homeroom class, then thumbed through the rest and landed on a random page from my senior year. 

Mrs. Calloway asked us to write letters to our future selves as an assignment yesterday. She said she’d keep them and find a way to mail them to us on our ten-year anniversary from graduating. I really hope she does. It would be funny to see if anything I wrote actually happens. 

Obviously, I said I was going to Columbia. Barring any disasters, that’s a given. I’ve already been accepted. 

I also said I was going to marry Chris Chisolm. I’m fucking obsessed with his voice – he sounds like melted butter tastes, and I bet he tastes even better. Obviously I didn’t write that part in my letter to Mrs. Calloway. 

He and I will live together in an awesome apartment in New York. I’ll be a writer, and I’ll wake up every morning to walk our dog through Central Park, because we’ll live right across the street. 

I’ll have published at least a couple of books by then. I’ll have them displayed on shelves in our house, so when people come over, I can be like “yeah, I wrote THAT.” 

I don’t remember what else I talked about. Hopefully she really does send us that letter. It’ll be fun to read. 

I closed the notebook with a snap and set it down carefully, trying to keep my breathing steady. My hand shook slightly as I reached for my cup of coffee, which had grown cold. My eyes darted around the condo, taking in the view of Central Park, Doug’s leash by the door, and my framed diploma from Columbia – one of the few personal items Chris let me keep on display. 

Chris. 

I swallowed a cup of cold coffee, just to give my mouth something liquid to process. The accuracy with which I had predicted my own life made the hairs on my arms stand on edge; I suddenly felt like I was buzzing. 

The only things missing from the perfect world I had described then created were my books. I’d published two since graduating, but neither of them had been massively successful. I held on to two copies for years, but we’d donated them to charity while turning our home into a minimalist sanctuary. 

“You have something better,” Chris had pointed out. “You have the originals in your brain and on your computer! You don’t need hard copies when you have something so invaluable.” 

So, they’d been packed up and shipped off, along with most of my clothes, my crystal collection, and my plants. It never occurred to me that I’d been erased from my own life, but sitting here, examining the evidence of my previous self, I couldn’t help but hear that word played on repeat in my head. 

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and I jumped up. The cleaning lady was here, and I was still in my robe. 

I opened the door for her and registered the shock on her face – she was used to seeing me dolled up in gym clothes, bouncing and ready to leave for the day. 

“Hi Martha,” I said hurriedly. “I’m so sorry, I got a late start this morning. Let me clean up the table and I’ll be out of your way.” 

“No problem, Mrs. Chisolm,” she replied with a soft smile. “I’ll start in the guest room.” 

She eyed the box and its scattered contents warily. We hired her to clean every week, but she rarely walked in to anything beyond a stray coffee cup or some dust. The site of a messy pile of old papers and trinkets was foreign in this sterile place. 

I dressed in a rush, pulling on some black leggings and a loose-fitting sweatshirt. My gym bag was already packed; I quickly shoved in my wallet and phone, then rushed out of my home, shouting a goodbye to Martha as I left. 

It was only as I reached the sidewalk and the secure doors latched behind me that I remembered I’d left the contents of the box strewn across the table. I started to turn around, then sighed. It was hardly worth the effort to go back. If Martha didn’t take care of it, I would do it when I got home. 

Instinctively, I started towards my gym, but decided against it at the last minute. The hectic rush of the morning had drained me of my desire to sweat, so I just kept walking. I found myself wandering along the north end of the park, then continued up West 110th, tracing the path I used to run from my dorm room at Columbia. 

I walked onto campus as I had so many times before, admiring the buildings and their significance, and made my way to the bookstore. I’d always loved college bookstores, even before I was a student. Something about the mis-matched collection of genres and shapes, paired with art supplies and tools for classes I’d never take made me love the chaos of the world. 

I smiled as I made my way to the literature section of the store – there was a sign above a stack of books: “From our alumni!” was its message, and several copies of my novels sat below it, along with work from several other students. I picked up a copy of my first novel and ran my fingers across its cover; the title was perforated slightly, and I traced the letters of my name carefully. 

Helena Gray. 

It had sold well, but not well enough. When I finished my second novel, my publisher had suggested that I use Chris’s last name. 

“To maximize recognition,” he had explained. 

I picked that one up now and traced the letters there. 

Chisolm. 

The manifestation of my childhood dreams lay in that name change, and I smiled as I recounted how I’d so intentionally shaped my life. 

Then I turned, paid, and left the store with two copies of my books, grabbing a new notebook and pen on my way out. It had been some time since I’d written in a physical diary – they were classified as “clutter” in our household. I made my way to a coffee shop nearby, to occupy myself for the rest of Martha’s cleaning time. 

The coffee shop was peppered with other writers – scraping away at moleskines with fountain pens and tapping their way through the keyboards on their MacBooks. I knew they were writers, because every few minutes, they’d pause, emerge from whatever world they were creating, and stare around the room with a glassy-eyed reverence – like they’d just seen God, and were coming back down to Earth. 

I remembered feeling that way, as I pulled out my new pen and notebook. I remembered being pulled so fully into the world I was creating that the real world felt alien when I stepped back into it. 

But for some reason, I couldn’t find my way there that day. There was a wall inside my brain, and my words poured out in stilted, halting prose. There was something familiar about the cadence I was creating on the page, but it wasn’t native to me. It felt inflicted. 

Still, when my phone rang out from my backpack, I was surprised to see that hours had passed, and Chris was calling. 

“Hey baby,” I answered brightly. 

“Thanks for leaving me a giant mess, Helena,” he snapped from the other end of the line. I felt warmth retreating from my chest like I had been plunged into an ice bath. “I get home, Martha’s standing at the table looking frazzled, and there’s just stuff piled everywhere.” 

I stayed quiet. 

“You promised you’d take care of that thing, and you still haven’t. You just made the mess bigger.” 

“I -” I started, then paused. “I’m sorry. I was sorting through things, then Martha came home and I wanted to get out of her way. I didn’t know you’d be home so early.” 

“It’s nearly four, Helena,” he grumbled. “We finished on time. I’ve been home for over an hour.” 

“Sorry, I’m coming home now,” I gathered up my things – my books and my new paper – shoved it all hastily into my backpack, and rushed home, feeling a little flatter than I had just moments before. 

Down 110th, across the park, through the rotating gold doors that somehow signaled both home and alien territory. Up the elevator, down the hall, into that sparsely furnished white monstrosity of space where I’d somehow built my life. 

Chris was in the kitchen, preparing a sandwich for himself as he did after every long day of filming. Turkey, lettuce, tomato, and gluten free white bread with no condiments. It always amazed me that he could prepare, assemble, and eat the sandwich without leaving a drop of mess on the pristine counter. 

My eyes darted immediately to the table, ready to take in the sin I’d left sitting there for him to discover, hoping he hadn’t opened and read the embarrassingly accurate diary entry. 

But the table was empty. It was smooth and clear and empty. 

“Hey there,” he said, much chirpier than he had been on the phone. “What did you get up to today?” 

I dropped my shopping bag and backpack on the floor. 

“Where’s my box?” I demanded. 

He frowned one side of his mouth. “Have you been shopping?” 

“Where’s my box?” I repeated, moving from the entryway down the hall to the bedroom. I bent over and looked under the bed, where it had lived ignored for so long. 

But, as with every other space in our perfect world, there was nothing there. 

I stood up and moved back to the kitchen, where Chris had picked up my shopping bag and peaked inside. 

“You bought your own books?” He sounded incredulous. “Are you that desperate for a sale?” 

I ignored him. “Where is the box, Chris?” 

He put tossed the copy of my first book back into its plastic bag with a dismissal that made my blood boil. 

“Don’t throw my things.” 

“Why would you buy these? I thought we talked about this.” 

“I wanted something of my own,” I snapped. “Where is my box, Chris?” 

He set the bag on the counter. “I threw it away.” 

I froze. “Excuse me?” 

He looked at me innocently. “It was in the book! If you have a partner who has difficulty letting meaningless objects go, you have to nudge them in the right direction.” 

I stared at him. 

“It’s tough love,” he finished. 

“Chris, that had my old diary in it,” hot tears pricked at the sides of my eyes. “Memories. Important notes. Things from my childhood.” 

“They can’t have been that important,” he took another bite of his sandwich. “You haven’t looked at that thing in years. You said so yourself.” 

“You didn’t even talk to me first,” I said. “We were just on the phone fifteen minutes ago. You couldn’t have asked?” 

He paused, looking sheepish for the first time. “Well, I’d actually already done it. I was just upset that you made me do it.” 

“I made you do it?” I picked my backpack up off the floor and straightened my back. “I made you throw away my old diary, photographs of my friends that I’ll never get back, and basically the only single thing in this house that belongs to me?” 

“That’s not true,” he looked hurt. “You have your entire office. All your clothes.” 

“YOU designed my office, Chris,” I exclaimed. “And YOU picked out my clothes. Actually, no, you PAID someone to pick out a ‘practical capsule wardrobe’ for me so my clothes wouldn’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.” 

“Because who wants to live with that clutter?” He demanded. 

“I DO,” I was shouting now, reliving the wine-soaked argument we’d had the night before, and countless nights before that. 

But there was something different this time. I felt the absence of the box like a void in my chest, and I felt myself being pulled into the miasma left in its wake. 

I was spiraling. 

I grabbed my bag of books from the counter and shoved them manically into my backpack, then moved towards the bedroom. I scanned the room for anything significant, but decided even my clothes weren’t mine enough to bother with in such a frenzy. The office was an unnecessary distraction. All my work was backed up virtually, so I didn’t need the iMac. 

Chris was following me from room to room now. 

“Where’s Doug?” I demanded, slowly realizing there was nothing beyond my backpack that had any piece of me attached to it. 

“I haven’t picked him up yet,” Chris answered, watching me cautiously. “What are you doing?” 

But I didn’t answer. 

I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out of the room, tracing the downward path my belongings would have taken to the base of the building. I didn’t cry, didn’t mourn, didn’t try to turn around. 

I walked outside, felt a warm rush of air across my face, and walked straight for the coffee shop down the road. Sitting down, I pulled out my new notebook and wrote a new note to myself. 

“Day 1,” I called it. 

And I started writing, ignoring the quiet buzz of my cell phone.